Her “other half” as you will read wrote this upon her request. I guess we’re not the creepy ones after all are we? We don’t make them into gay pornos seirously like you “fans” do.
FIRST ATTEMPT AT A DIFFERENT SLASH PAIRING, ZOMG.
Title: The Horrors of Healing.
Pairing: Rhys/Faris of the Horrors.
Rating: R for language and sexy.
Summary: Rhys is ill and Faris is more than willing to take care of him.
Feedback: is my drug of choice.
Disclaimer: I do NOT own Rhys, Faris, or any of the other boys from the band, though I so wish I did.
Especially Coffin Joe.
A/N: This was done as a request for my other half spytarwebb. Nikki, ILOVEYOUMORETHANWORDS and I totally hope you enjoy this. It was so much fun to write and a welcome break from everything else. So thank YOU for that. Also, unbeta’d. ALSO, if you have no idea who these two are, this is a video of Faris and Rhys (from left to right). If you can’t view the video, this is Rhys and this is Faris.
The keys give a jingle as one of them enters the lock, the low hum of music coming from inside the flat. Faris quickly turns the knob and steps inside, the music growing in volume, accompanied by the dull sound of a cough in the distance. Who was it this time? Joe having a bad trip and choking on his own tongue? Josh drilling into God only knows what and causing more dust and debris to float around the already small flat? No, both are off somewhere in London, doing whatever the bollocking fuck they wanted with whomever they so chose to spend the day with. Lucky tossers.
Carrying a camera, a sketchpad, a carton of cigarettes, and a bottle of wine in both arms, he moves further into the front room of the flat and kicks the door shut behind him. No one seems to hear, so he doesn’t bother to apologise. Through an unruly fringe, he blinks, body hunched as he moves to set the items down on the nearest table as carefully as possible; the cigarette that hangs from his lips shakes and ashes flutter to the wooden floor beneath him only to be stomped upon with the pointed toe of his boot. The scent of smoke is strong throughout the room, drifting also from an open doorway just down the hall.
“Rhys?” he asks, giving a cough, fingers moving to pluck the stick from his lips; the name is the only one he knows should get a response, but when there is no reply, he pushes himself further into the flat rather than falling back. He stubs out the cigarette in the nearest ash tray before moving to pick the wine back up, the carton in his other hand; the camera and sketchpad are left haphazardly on the table, unneeded. Another cough is heard from somewhere in the flat, Faris’ ears picking up on it almost immediately. He begins to follow.
“Rhys?” Faris repeats, batting away at the smoke with the cardboard carton. He uses his foot to kick open the door and frowns once the sight before him is revealed. There, lying on the bed is Rhys, hair messed about and clothes dishevelled; he turns to face Faris, landing on his side, curled up in a ball. His face is pale, his hand pressed to his lips in a limp fist to block an oncoming cough and sputter, and he looks utterly exhausted from the effort. Faris sighs when he sees the cigarette in the crystal of the ashtray, half burnt out, but still smoking.
“What’s wrong, eh?” He moves towards the bed and sets the bottle of wine down on the bedside table, moving to crush out the cigarette butt that shouldn’t have been lit in the first place, especially not in Rhys’ current state. “You look like shit, mate.” He clears his throat and takes a seat on the side of the bed beside his band mate, ridding himself of everything in his arms before turning towards Rhys again.
“That’s because I’m ill,” the musician replies, voice sounding bitter and awfully congested. Faris stares at him without much emotion from beneath the shield of his hair. He watches as Rhys moves to try and sit up, but only groans and ends up rolling over onto his back. For a second, the only thing that’s heard is the low sound of the radio beside the bed. Rhys coughs again, an awful bloody cough, before relaxing and wheezing instead, a soft groan escaping his lips. His body shivers and he reaches for the duvet, pulling it up with a shaking hand to cover himself with. His next attempt is to reach for the carton of cigarettes, but Faris stops him with record speed.
“Mate, take it easy, will you? Lay back and relax, for fuck’s sake, if you’re ill. They’re not going anywhere,” he instructs, but Rhys stubbornly continues to reach for them. Faris’ grip on the bony wrist of his friend grows only tighter and eventually, after a harsh glare, Rhys relents. He falls back to the pillow with another harsh cough and groan of discomfort, burying his face in the duvet as he pulls it over his head. His last intelligible word is, “Wanker,” and then silence prevails.
Helplessly, Faris looks on. Any bastard can tell that the poor sod’s ill, much more so than he’s ever been; if Rhys is ever in pain or sick, he’s always one to complain, to throw a fit, to make a scene. For him not to means he’s too weak, to fragile to even bother. This, to Faris, seems like it’s one of those times and he feels completely unable to help. No soup, no tea – nothing would aide him, he feels. What was meant to be a day spent pissing about on keyboards and bass, mucking about with lyrics and poetry while drinking and smoking, watching telly and sleeping when the sun came up was utterly and completely fucked at this point. Rhys could be a total cunt when in a bad mood and being ill was sure to bring a firestorm of insults and bitch fits.
So what the fuck was he meant to do?
The singer looks at the pile lying on the mattress, watching as the fabric of the blanket flutters with the slightest shift in breathing, the lightest shiver from the body beneath.
“Rhys, c’mon. Let’s get you a lemsip, eh?” Faris whispers, voice deep and set with a stern tone as he moves to try and pull the duvet from his friend’s face. With a strong hand, he reaches up to the hem and takes it within his fingers, each digit ghosting over dark locks before clamping over the fabric itself. He moves to pull it down, but Rhys is still quite petulant and holds it tight, pushing where Faris pulls. “Rhys. RHYS. Stop fucking about, yeah? You can barely breathe as is, pull the goddamn blanket down.”
“Piss off, Badwan,” is the curt reply he receives.
Faris grits his teeth and lets go of the duvet, hissing ever so slightly. “You want to play, Webb? Fine.”
Moving quickly, the singer throws one leg over the heap of a body that’s hiding beneath the bed sheets, straddling his middle. He hears the muffled voice of Rhys trying to protest from under him, but he barely pays any mind. Instead, he moves to reach up and grab the cover once more, bracing himself on his knees to tug. Rhys writhes beneath him, bucking to try and get him off all to no avail. Faris is larger, more muscular and easily able to withstand the punches and jabs the organist might throw.
“’m just … trying to … help you!” the singer growls when a few come from beneath the duvet, arching forward to get a grip on the blanket. As he reaches for it, however, Rhys pulls it down quickly and glares at him; Faris tumbles forward, caught off guard as his hands land on either side of the organist’s head, that unruly hair falling in both of their faces. Rhys stifles a cough and closes his eyes tightly.
“Faris, leave me alone!” he whines, still squirming, though he’s stilled considerably. Faris merely looks down at him, shaking his head. He reaches forward and brushes a thumb along the smudged eyeliner of the tired eyes of his band mate. He sighs softly, sitting back only slightly to cup Rhys’ face in his hands tenderly, the situation between them abruptly changing; the musician opens his eyes and looks up at Faris with a softer gaze, body now lying still beneath him. The two exchange a glance before the singer pulls away, taking the blanket it with him.
“C’mon. You’re rank and in need of a shower, you stinky spider,” he jokes. Rhys whines and tries to cover himself another time, but Faris is still stronger in his healthy state and gets the blanket off the bed without much trouble. Next, he moves to rid Rhys of his shirt, popping each button slowly; he swallows as the fabric parts and Rhys reluctantly holds his arms out to be pulled up. Faris does so without hesitation, allowing his friend to slip the shirt off. Next comes the belt, something that the singer rids him of almost too quickly, and then the trousers. Soon, the organist is left in nothing but his socks – no, those are gone in a moment, as well – and boxers. Wrapping his arm around the skinnier male, Faris takes Rhys’ weight upon his own and slowly, but surely, leads him towards the bathroom and sits him on the toilet to wait.
“Bath instead, yeah?” Rhys interjects when Faris goes for the faucet. The singer turns and gives him a playful glare; the organist merely flushes apologetically and gives that shy smile of his in return, baring his teeth as they coyly snag his lower lip. Faris swallows and looks away, moving immediately to turn on the hot faucet for the tub. The water begins to pour into the porcelain bath and Faris darts his hand beneath the spray to check the temperature, pulling back now and again when it gets too hot while twirling the others to try and get the perfect feel.
“There,” he says after a minute or two, shaking his hands over the bath. Moving back towards Rhys, he helps him stand and waits for the organist to lift his arms. He shivers as he does so, body shaking; he looks frail, withering from the illness and as hopeful as Faris is that he’ll get better, he can’t help but let his heart sink at the sight. Swallowing hard to refrain from speaking his thoughts, he gives a slight smile and tickles his fingers down Rhys’ sides. The organist lets out a yelp and giggles, trying to swat him away until Faris manages to get a few fingers beneath the waistband of his boxers only to tug them down. They slide down thin legs and pool at the floor; both are unabashed at the nudity, though Rhys continues to flush as Faris leads him, carefully, towards the bath.
“Slip in with me. Please?” Rhys spits out whilst Faris is behind him. He turns to look over his shoulder and if the singer were to make a guess, he was batting his eyelashes to entice him further. Rolling his eyes playfully, Faris makes quick work of his own clothes. Tie, jacket, shirt, and trousers are shed momentarily, socks kicked off with boots after. Steadying Rhys with one hand, the singer boldly steps into the bath, one foot at a time, and holds onto the shower head with his other. Once he’s ready, he reaches out for Rhys, who like a small child, tucks his chin to his chest and smiles as he steps in, hands tightly grasping at his friend’s.
Faris slowly allows them to sink once he’s sure Rhys is stable enough; he slides to the back of the bath and allows the organist to slip in between his legs in front. He shivers at the warmth of the water and the heat of the body around him; Rhys merely coughs, covering his mouth with that same weak hand. Faris leans forward and quickly kisses the bare, bony shoulder of his band mate before reaching for the soap. Along the way, he reaches into the water and scoops some into his hand, pouring it over the exposed flesh of Rhys’ body; he watches it prickle to life with goose bumps and twitch beneath the warm water.
“Feeling any better?” Faris asks, voice softer than before in Rhys’ ear. The organist hums contentedly, eyes closing, head resting back against the taller man’s shoulder. The singer smiles and truly reaches for the soap this time, using the bar once it’s in his hands to scrub along Rhys’ legs and arms; he immediately rinses them, humming softly to “Chelsea Dagger” as the body in his lap relaxes, no longer sputtering with coughs or shivering from the cold. Mission accomplished.
Faris smiles and rests his chin on Rhys’ shoulder, fingers kneading into the flesh of his belly as he moves to scrub the light trail of hair from stomach to hip, suds of soap appearing in his wake. Rhys stretches slightly, exposing his flat stomach, face contorted in a teasing grin, eyes still closed and smothered with eyeliner. Faris moves to bite at his neck playfully, dropping the soap in the water and scooping up more with his hands, pouring it over his friend’s chest; he watches as it trickles down, rinsing the suds out, and flattening the dark hair against the pale skin.
Next comes the quick rinse of Rhys’ hair; the lighter shade turns dark as the water rolls over it, plastering it to his head. Faris pushes the thick locks back, running his fingers through them; he hears Rhys hiss in slight pain when his rings catch. He takes a moment to shush him, a soft kiss pressed to the top of his head as he peels them off and wiggles each digit to become accustomed to the naked feeling. He sets them on the toilet seat and moves to grab the bottle of shampoo, humming the rest of the tune as he squirts a bit onto his palm and rubs it in. Immediately, he sifts his fingers through that infamous head of hair and scrubs; nails, fingertips – they rub and they scratch, they dig with such pressure that it makes Rhys moan softly in pleasure. The sound instantly makes Faris’ lower half tense, his arousal quickly growing in response; he shifts back a bit, but Rhys is already privy to the way the singer is beginning to feel and does his best to milk it for all it’s worth.
“Faris, turn on the shower,” he whimpers throatily, throwing his head to the side, burying his face slightly in the chest of the man in question. He wiggles, causing Faris’ brow to furrow in confusion, lips parting to speak, but they are abruptly cut off. Rhys silences him by tilting his head back, exposing a pale throat and a protruding Adam’s apple; he drags his soapy head down the collar and chest of his mate behind him to seduce with the best of his ability. His eyes open at this point and his lips are curved in a soft pout, arms stretched out on the sides of the tub, fingers clutching at the porcelain. “Might as well get drenched while we’re at it, eh?” He smirks and Faris feels his knees quiver at the sight. Teasing bastard.
Like a man on a mission, Faris reaches forward, body unable to manoeuvre well beneath the form that is quite boldly and unabashedly pressing back against his own. He swallows, lower half shifting against the slick bottom of the tub as he reaches for the shower cord; he pulls it down with a strain of his arm, biting his lip to stifle a soft groan as his body shifts against Rhys’. Rhys revels in it and gives a soft purr, eyes closing once more as he feels the singer’s arousal slide against his lower back; cheekily, he grinds back against it, head still resting comfortably against Faris’ chest.
Quickly, the singer turns on the water at a slow pace; he tests it with his fingers, wiggling them beneath the spray before turning it towards them. It takes a mere moment for the two to become drenched, a gasp escaping Rhys’ lips as he feels the water dripping down his nose and chest, the slow pulsing stream feeling utterly delicious. Faris watches as the lithe man arches towards the water, closing his eyes tightly; he quickly moves to rinse the soap from the organist’s hair, watching as it trickles down his elongated throat and his heaving chest, straight down his stomach to the water that pools at his waist.
“Fucking hell,” Faris whispers, the sight far more exciting than it should be. Rhys smirks proudly as he hears, shifting back further against the singer, the water sliding down to his thighs and exposing his own arousal, flushed and slick against his thigh. Faris swallows hard behind him, watching as Rhys’ arms tense, muscles twitching and tightening as he grabs harder at the sides of the tub. He coughs and groans, head falling back against the damp chest of the singer with a harsh thud.
“Make me feel better, Faris,” he begs, his implication rather obvious in the way his hips subconsciously lift and shift under the shower spray, which is now aimed at his lower half. Faris stares at the way the water pulses, throbs against the untouched flesh as if in a trance; he can’t move, he can’t continue with the motion Rhys is pleading for, even if his mind is now screaming at him to do so. He only watches, transfixed with the sight for a while longer. “Please…”
Only when Rhys’ fingers shift their grip on the tub with a squeak does he finally break free from the spell.
Dropping the shower head, Faris’ fingers move to run down the smooth chest of the organist in his grasp; he trails them, one by one, inch by inch, down the damp skin until he reaches the junction between hip and thigh. There, he stops and runs a single finger along the indent, taking pleasure in the way it makes Rhys shiver. He presses a kiss to the thin man’s shoulder, trailing them towards his neck as his hand travels at the same time to grasp between his legs. Rhys hisses at the contact between palm and cock; he whimpers as the hand giving the attention allows him a reflexive buck of the hips. Faris knows then that he’s in control, that he’s the one making Rhys act in such a way; it wouldn’t be the first time, but it still felt just as fresh and new every time.
“Faris…” Rhys whines impatiently, chest rising with a heavy, gasping breath. He clears his throat, stifling a cough as Faris’ hand begins to move, tugging at the length with fervor. His palm slides across the shaft, fingers snugly grasping at the flesh. Each flick of the wrist causes the organist to writhe in pleasure, body tossing and turning in the water, hips rising and falling to a beat almost as quick as his racing heart. Faris watches on from behind the scenes, the muscles of his arm convulsing with each backward and forward motion; his breathing is laboured, his own arousal painfully caught between taut skin and porcelain, but he doesn’t complain. Make him feel better, Rhys begged, and so he would get.
His hand speeds up, increasing the pace as well as the pressure. The gasping organist nearly chokes on the oxygen he so greedily inhales, nails cracking the fading material of the tub; his feet kick against the edge, slipping and sliding beneath the tumultuous waters. He’s not going to last, especially in such a weak state, but Faris continues on, never slowing and never stopping. He pushes forward, tightening his hand with each stroke, thumb peeking out to run across the head of Rhys’ weeping length, nail scratching a teasing trail along the sensitive slit. It’s enough to throw the musician into ecstasy, his moans growing in volume, his hips bucking into the friction violently, without shame.
“F-Faris, Faris, I… I…” Rhys begins to mumble incoherently, words falling from teeth, tongue, and lips in an intelligible manner. Faris grinds unabashed against Rhys’ back, the ripple of his spine providing the perfect friction with each slip of his arousal against the skin. He keeps his own pleasure in time with the attentions he’s bestowing upon Rhys, his release just as imminent as his band mate’s. He can feel it with the way the nimble body in his lap tenses, every muscle tightening to the point of trembling stillness.
Rhys finally comes with a loud, keening cry, body arching away from Faris’, hips stuttering to an off beat rhythm as he rides out the orgasm. Faris quickly reaches between his own legs when his rutting ground is torn away, hand freely tugging himself off to reach the same level of pleasure; it’s mere moments before he’s following, moaning lowly, biting into Rhys’ shoulder. Together, they tremble and shake, the aftershock bearing down heavily upon them both. They settle in the bath, heat subsiding to a cool, lukewarm temperature that blankets them both; the water has chilled to a dull sting, the shower head still running and threatening to spill its contents over the side of the tub.
With a weak arm, Faris reaches forward to turn off the tap, toe tugging the chain to the stopper up and out of the drain. The gurgle of the water sliding through the pipe is the only sound other than their heavy breathing, the only motion around them the churning and swirling of the bath water. Faris leans back against the tub, arms moving absentmindedly to wrap around the still trembling Rhys, pulling him closer protectively. The organist shudders and sighs happily at the notion, eyes closing once again, head falling back to its proper position on Faris’ chest.
“Back to bed?” the singer asks after a few moments elapse. Rhys merely nods in reply, too tired and still dealing with too much shock to speak.
Faris pushes Rhys forward a bit then, moving to stand on wobbling knees behind him. He reaches down next, sliding his arms underneath the organist’s to pull him to a standing position, as well. He steps out of the tub then, becoming the steady arm once more for Rhys as he climbs out, nearly slipping on the wet tile. Faris laughs at the gesture and catches him with eager arms, wrapping a towel around them both before carefully leading the way out into the carpeted bedroom.
In no time at all, the two are back in bed, both warm under the slightly dampened bed covers. Faris lies with Rhys’ head cradled protectively on his chest, his breathing having cleared considerably since their encounter earlier in the day. Idle fingers twirl at wet hair or trace designs on wet flesh; together, they make no sound other than breathing, at least, not at first. When the time comes, however, Faris is the first to speak, if only briefly.
“Feel better, then?” he inquires again, looking down at the hair that hides his friend’s face from him; it moves with a simple nod of Rhys’ head, eliciting a laugh from the singer. He lays back on the pillow and sighs, but is soon silenced by a harsh, sudden cough escaping his own lips rather than those of the sick organist. Rhys peeks up at him and smiles almost smugly, resting his chin upon Faris’ chest, toothy grin spreading quickly.
“Looks like you’ll need to be taken care of next.”
Faris groans in distaste and pulls the duvet over them both.